


To My Dear Tragic Prince

by DidiNyx



Category: Hamlet - Shakespeare
Genre: Angst, Coping, Death, Emotional Hurt, Friendship/Love, Guilt, Introspection, M/M, Post-Canon, horatio cares too much, sorry i didn't mean this to be too sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-07
Updated: 2019-03-07
Packaged: 2019-11-13 04:09:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18024398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DidiNyx/pseuds/DidiNyx
Summary: Horatio learns the hard way that he can't save everybody.





	To My Dear Tragic Prince

**Author's Note:**

> i had to write this because i'm dealing with a lot of pressure right now and i had to get it all out

Horatio stares out into the misty kingdom of Denmark-- at least, what's left of it-- and he swears he still feels the ghost of his friend awaiting him. Like old times, he thinks. Except even those times were shrouded in that bleak, ominous shadow that haunted Prince Hamlet his whole life. "I know tragedies," he'd say, "I know how spirits and doom return." And Horatio believed every word of it. 

It wasn't just the castle ruins or the ancient tombstones all around, it was the heaviness of the atmosphere that reminded Horatio of his dear Hamlet. He's all around, the scholar thought bitterly, he truly was the essence of bitterness now. The crumbled stones, the lake that still held Ophelia's blood, the swords and wine on the wealthy floor, the glimmer of riches, the dampness of the rain, that earthy smell so sad it sent Horatio shivering and cursing the land. The land that took those nobles away, the land that scarred Hamlet in life and maybe even in death. Oh, Hamlet always wondered about death, what lies beneath humanity's knowledge of the world they made theirs. They could claim everything but Death. That uknown power claimed _you_.

Hamlet had his wish, yes? A silent death? Except is wasn't silent at all, no, not if you counted Horatio's inner agony that kept him up all night. And sometimes he'd swear he heard Hamlet's whisper, so fond and maybe even teasing, maybe he was sharing a joke or warning something. Yes. Maybe that's it. He was warning Horatio's self-destruction, as ironic as it was coming from the dark prince. "You really do care so deeply," Hamlet once said before embracing Horatio. It was lovely in the moment, now it was just sad. Bleak. The reminder of eternity, of sleep, that Horatio wished he could have alongside his beloved. Horatio really did care too much, too much over someone that ultimately chased melancholy. And Horatio fell in love with melancholy-- it was so much like his dead lover.

Hamlet was happy once, he knew. He was a scholar, he was wealthy, he could travel and act and read all day if he wanted to. He practiced fencing, and maybe people thought he was intimidating, but not Horatio. In fact, it was funny, Hamlet wasn't intimidating at all. He needed the gentle touch of a friend most of all, and he wilted within the cold like those poems of lovely angels who meet their end too soon. They had so many good times, with the laughs and stolen touches and midnight adventures and a love so sweet you'd think perhaps it was all some dream. Yes, a dream in which Hamlet was truly, so overwhelmingly happy. Alas, how fleeting such a world truly is. 

Horatio often thought what could have been, or if he could stop time or start it over back to the beginning so Hamlet didn't have to suffer. Or that Horatio could have said something else, something more than would prevent sorrow in both their raging hearts. At least, if only one thing, Horatio could hold Hamlet tight when it truly mattered and made sure his love was clear, clear enough for the prince to not let a poisoned knife taint the sun falling on Denmark for evermore.

That's when the guilt comes in, the attachment to a body now cold and lifeless. It was still Hamlet, though Horatio didn't want to believe that at all. And the funny thing is, Horatio thought maybe it was best for him to feel everything Hamlet had felt. Maybe then he'd be repaying him, because obviously the mind of Hamlet was still unknown. How come he did talk the way he did, how come he accepted his tragic fate, how come he kept quiet, how come he chose not to feel after a while, did he always see ghosts and death and sorrow in his wake? Has he always seen such visions, his blood spilling, his soul aging, his laughs becoming mad as they caused such tears?

Any soliloquy was a lost echo, deep within the void of Hamlet's presence that lingered still. Maybe Horatio was wrong after all. There are some people you can't save, no matter how hard you try, no matter how much your tender heart cares. It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter a damned thing at all. 

Horatio turns the page, and tries to write something else on the blank paper. But his mind fails him. The black ink doesn't satisfy him. All he wants to do is write his lover's name several times over and over again, hoping maybe Hamlet understands his fault, his love, his loyalty to follow him into the unknown realm of... of... 

Well, he doesn't know. Maybe he'll never know.

Finally the world rests. It sinks in, that melancholy he loves. It's in Hamlet's eyes, it's always been. Horatio should have known better. It _is_ Hamlet's eyes. Deep and raw, bittersweet and precious. Precious like a life, peaceful like Death.

He'll never know. Hamlet will never know, even if his ghostly eyes watch him still. 

_To my dear Tragic Prince, I should have saved you. I mean it. I don't know what else to say... 'Tis all I can manage._


End file.
